


Hurt 'Em Back

by razboinicul_iernii



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Brock is a terrible teacher, Assets & Handlers, Awkwardness, Bucky does not understand, Canon-Typical Violence, Confusion, Gen, Humor, Introspection, Manipulation, Morally grey Brock Rumlow, POV Brock Rumlow, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Seizures, Some angst, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, he's still largely trash though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: "Brock didn't really know what he'd been expecting. Probably someone like a lone action hero, ready with a smarmy quip and dripping with charisma. Instead, he got a soft-spoken idiot who licked the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror because it smelled like cotton candy. The immediate wrinkling of his nose made it very plain that it didn't taste anything like it smelled. Not that Brock needed to be informed of that because he wasn't a complete and utter moron. No, reality hadn't just clashed with Brock's expectations. It'd murdered them violently."(AU where Brock Rumlow snags Hydra's secret weapon he's heard so much about and makes a break for it. But no one told him just how much work was involved in handling the Winter Soldier.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I write one genre of MCU fic and it is Bucky learning how reality works outside of HYDRA and I will stop when I'm dead thanks for reading

It didn't matter how smoothly the extraction had gone. Brock wouldn't be able to relax any time soon. Maybe never. Because the thing was, he'd stolen HYDRA's property. Very important and valuable property, property he didn't exactly know how to use but it wasn't like he was about to admit that to himself as he sat next to it in the vehicle with the cruise control set at exactly seventy miles per hour to avoid drawing unwanted attention from police. No, he'd brute force this like he had every other challenging aspect of his life until he came out on top.  
  
You'd think, what with all the horrifying stories whispered about the guy, the Winter Soldier would've been a lot harder to boss around, a lot harder to manipulate. Turns out if you catch him right after he comes out of that electric chair, he's very, very suggestible. Brock wasn't aware of that whole thing until he saw it being used on the guy. Hell, the Soldier himself he'd only glimpsed in passing in dark corridors and moving transports. Most people on his level knew the stories, but few had ever actually worked with him.  
  
Now he was sitting with _the_ top fucking assassin and it felt like an awkward god damn road trip to a place neither of them wanted to be instead of the intense and dangerous escape attempt it was. Awkward not because of anything that was said. In fact, the Soldier was a pretty quiet guy, and Brock was too busy rehearsing their route in his head to say much more to him at the moment.  
  
It was awkard because the guy was a total fucking weirdo.  
  
Brock didn't really know what he'd been expecting. Probably someone like a lone action hero, ready with a smarmy quip and dripping with charisma. Instead, he got a soft-spoken idiot who licked the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror because it smelled like cotton candy. The immediate wrinkling of his nose made it very plain that it didn't taste anything like it smelled. Not that Brock needed to be informed of that because he wasn't a complete and utter moron. No, reality hadn't just clashed with Brock's expectations. It'd murdered them violently.  
  
They were about two hours out from DC, headed west on 81. It'd taken nearly that whole two hours for him to convince himself that this was the right idea. Maybe he'd made a mistake, stealing the Soldier moments before the launch of Insight. It'd seemed like such a waste, sending someone as prolific as the Winter Soldier to his almost certain death in a fight against Captain America. Brock had worked closely with Rogers for a couple years, and much as people liked to paint him as the wholesome, good guy ideal, the man was ready to end a life if he had no other option. Maybe the Soldier was hot shit in a fight, but an army of fucking aliens hadn't stopped Cap, and Brock had to be objective here.  
  
And of course, he had to think about himself, too. He'd given everything to HYDRA. And they were throwing him-and all the people like him-away for the sake of a master plan rushed into a rotten fruition because the all-American boogeyman had woken up from his decades-long nap. He thought of his team, their dedication, their sacrifices, and now...  
  
They'd made their decisions. No changing that now.  
  
The silence got to him, and he flipped on the radio, searching for a news station. The Soldier glanced at the radio briefly, then returned his gaze out the window. Brock grimaced as the reports of the carnage came through. Rogers and his pals had gone above and beyond, really. Three totally wrecked hellicarriers. The Triskelion demolished. Too early to estimate casualties but come on. A toppled skyscraper didn't often result in a lot of people getting away unscathed.  
  
Brock sighed through his nose and stared at the highway. One hand gripped the top of the steering wheel, the other supporting the weight of his head, elbow planted in the door. "Has Agent Singh been able to confirm the Secretary's safety?" the Soldier asked, looking back at the radio.  
  
Brock raised an eyebrow. "Who the hell is Agent Singh?" Even if Brock didn't work with the Soldier or any of his immediate handlers, he still knew plenty of agents and he knew none by that name.  
  
The Soldier pointed at the radio this time. "The debriefing. Can you ask her about the Secretary?"  
  
He cocked his head slightly to look at the Soldier. "It's just the news, kid." It seemed like the kind of thing you'd have to clarify for a child so the word just slipped out. "I don't know the lady. I can't exactly call her up. Even if I could, she probably doesn't have the answers. If she had, she would've said something." The whereabouts of five of the world's prominent politicians after a terrorist attack was the kind of shit the public would want to know about, he figured. But all that'd been said of them was their last known whereabouts-at the top of the Triskelion. It didn't take a genius to figure out how that had ended for them, but the station was trying to be responsible by not reporting that news until they had some kind of confirmation.  
  
The Soldier was quiet as he processed Brock's explanation. "These dockets are public?" the Soldier asked, like he wanted to clarify.  
  
"Uh, yeah. That's what the 'P' in NPR stands for." Far as Brock could tell, the Soldier thought this transmission had been just for them. A HYDRA exclusive. It almost made him want to laugh, the idea of NPR being a HYDRA conduit or something, book reviews and talk shows and all. He'd only flipped it on because it was the nearest news channel on the dial.  
  
Something about the whole situation was clearly rubbing the Soldier the wrong way. He shifted in his seat. Briefly clasped his hands in his lap before returning them to his sides. Then he asked, "Shouldn't we go back for the Secretary?"  
  
Brock had been able to convince the Soldier to abandon his mission by claiming there was a coup going on. That HYDRA had fractured, and the Secretary had to escape. That was the reason he wasn't present to give orders. Brock told him they were going to meet him at an as of yet undisclosed location, and that was really all it took. It seemed kind of dangerous, in retrospect, that someone like the Winter Soldier could be so suggestible. But it benefited him for now, so he wouldn't complain. He just had to keep the lies as consistent as he could. Though, after watching the guy lick an air freshener, Brock had to wonder just how careful he needed to be with what he said. Didn't seem like HYDRA had valued him greatly for his critical thinking skills. "His orders were clear. I'm to escort you to a location of his choosing. He said to stay out of DC."  
  
The Soldier sat back and pressed his lips together, but didn't protest. Things got quiet again. The Soldier wasn't much of a talker to begin with, if these first few hours were any indication. And that was fine by Brock. They didn't need to be buddies. They just needed to not be dead.  
  
He tried not to obsessively tune back into the news at every possible moment, forcing himself to go through his plans again. He didn't have much. There were a few places to go that wouldn't be on paper, because he was sure as hell that the data dropped online was going to include whatever properties HYDRA owned across the globe. Maybe it'd take some time for various governments to actually get out and investigate them, but Brock wasn't about to poke his nose in any of them and hope for the best. Three secure locations sprang to mind when he first started all this, and he still hadn't decided which one was safest. Largely because he couldn't know until shit hit the fan just how much information was going to get out there.  
  
That meant stopping somewhere long enough to download the leaks. They'd have to get somewhere with wifi. Then there was the time it'd take to sift through the data and hopefully find information on safe houses that may be included in the files. Maybe the Soldier could read through them while Brock drove to save them time. Unless HYDRA had decided the guy was better off illiterate. Worried that that could be a very real possibility, given his other moments of stupidity in the short span of hours he'd spent with the Soldier, Brock pointed to the large, green sign beside the highway as they approached. "What does that say?"  
  
"Fishersville. Three miles," he responded immediately. So he had that going for him. The Soldier flicked his eyes towards Brock, who had his eyes on the road again. "Are you unable to read the signs?"  
  
"Are you being a smartass?" Brock asked, narrowing his eyes at the road.  
  
The Soldier was quiet, like he was thinking about how to answer that. Maybe even straining to come up with another smart response. But then Brock realized he wasn't being sarcastic at all when he said, "If you are unable to read the signs, you may need my assistance in successfully navigating the route. I was attempting to be proactive. To anticipate the team's needs and meet them where possible."  
  
Brock snorted, even if he was thrown by the response. His team would've asked him if he needed his old man glasses if he'd tested one of them like that. "Got news for you, friend. There's only two of us here. Not much of a team."  
  
The Soldier's eyebrows twitched up towards each other. "I am unsure of a better term, sir."  
  
Brock supposed he was right. 'Two stupid fugitives in a Camry' just wasn't succinct enough to be realistically usable on the regular. He glanced at the gas meter. It was a little below half. Time was good as any to stop, grab the files, get some food and gas, and move on again. From the sounds of the news, the whole world wasn't quite lit up with the fact that not only was the government crawling with HYDRA personnel, but one highly trained STRIKE agent had run off with their top secret murder machine for unknown, but likely nefarious, reasons. So chances were, no one would recognize their faces right off the bat. They still had time, and Brock would value that while he could because it sure as shit wasn't going to last.  
  
"Fishersville it is," he muttered, watching for the exit. He glanced over at the Soldier as he took the exit ramp. "Listen, we're going to refuel. Get something to eat. Then I'm going to park somewhere with an internet connection and download the leaks. You understand all that, or is this moonspeak to you too?" He had to ask. After the Soldier seemed startled by the fact that everyone got to hear the daily news, it only made sense to be cautious.  
  
"Understood."  
  
"Great." He scanned the main strip off the highway. Up on the left he spotted a gas station and a McDonald's. Good enough. He kept his head down as he pumped gas, trying to look for cameras without being obvious. Place this small, maybe there wouldn't be many. Nothing he could see. There was an ATM inside, but that was it. Probably one over the door at least, watching people come in and out. He could deal with that.  
  
After he finished, he tapped the glass of the driver side window. The Soldier looked up immediately and Brock nodded at him to exit. He wasn't too keen on leaving the Soldier on his own in the car. Would he steal it himself and run off? Would someone notice him? Had they been followed? It all seemed so unlikely, but he was way too paranoid to leave him out here and figured it wouldn't take too long to get in and out of the shop. And this way, he could have eyes on the Soldier without making it too plain that he was looking back out through the windows of the store. Clerks tended to notice and remember antsy people who seemed like they were waiting for something outside.  
  
The Soldier trailed behind him and his wide eyes seemed interested in everything at once, darting all over the place. That was the start of Brock's concern. But the kid kept his hands to himself and followed quietly as Brock made his way to the drink coolers on the wall. He grabbed a few waters then looked for some food that wasn't loaded with sugar or grease. Given it was a gas station, there wasn't much, but he was trying to avoid stopping off inside the McDonald's, if possible. And their food wasn't any better.  
  
He ended up with some protein bars, some mixed nuts, trail mix, and a thing of jerky. It wasn't dinner but it'd hold them over til they got farther from DC. He glanced up to run this by the Soldier only to find he was no longer beside him like the patient little duckling he'd been when they first came in. He was too damned quiet on his feet, to be able to walk off without Brock noticing. "Shit," Brock muttered, searching down the aisle. He peered over the top, back towards the coolers but didn't see him.  
  
It was the cry of, "Hey, hey buddy, you have to pay for that!" that got Brock's attention next. Now he felt like an idiot for thinking he could bring the Soldier in here. So maybe he deserved this. He was in the next aisle in a flash, and sure enough, there was the Soldier, frozen like a deer in headlights. He stared at the guy behind the counter, and he looked mildly guilty, like he felt bad for a transgression but also that he didn't realize whatever he was doing was wrong to begin with. Brock glanced at the stuff in his hands. Yeah, they were not having their fucking cover blown over a bag of gummi worms and an energy drink. The Soldier's hand slowly retracted out of the bag he'd opened, and he looked to Brock for help, a neon green worm jiggling from lips pressed in a tight, worried line.

Brock sighed angrily. He swiped the bag and can away and brushed past the Soldier. He set everything on the counter and with his hands freed up, he could rub at his eyes like he so desperately wanted to. He had to ward off a headache somehow. "Sorry, he's...foreign." If it sounded like a lame excuse, it's because it was.

It didn't help that the Soldier sidled up behind him and whispered, "Where am I from?"

The guy behind the counter snorted, making it plain he didn't believe this for a second. "Must be great, living somewhere where everything's free."

"I earn supplies through cooperation-" the Soldier began to explain before Brock told him to shut up. The guy was not fit to interact with anyone, apparently, so he wouldn't let him.

"Here, keep the change for your trouble," Brock said quickly, leaving about five extra dollars. He snatched up the snacks and shoved them at the Soldier before dragging him out by the sleeve.

"Has policy been revised-" the Soldier started to ask as Brock pushed him through the door.

Brock didn't have the patience to let him finish. He yanked open the driver's side door and dropped inside, the Soldier following his example. "Shut the fuck up and listen. I've got some rules for you." The Soldier stared at him, this look a bit more bewildered than ashamed. Something about that look told Brock he wasn't used to being spoken to like this. Whether it was the casual language, the cursing, or his agitated tone, Brock couldn't be sure, but it got his attention and that's all he needed. "Look, you aren't ready to talk to people that aren't me, so don't do it."

His eyes dropped to his feet briefly as he considered this. He looked back at Brock. "I don't understand the correct procedure?"

"Yeah, like this basic one: don't fucking steal!" Brock waved the bag of candy for emphasis and the Soldier followed it with his eyes.

"But I earned it. We weeded out traitors, a valuable service." Brock remembered the story he'd fed the Soldier to get him to comply. About the alleged coup within HYDRA. It was the best thing he could come up with to get the Soldier to follow him and explain why about half the agents and techs they'd encounter on their way out might try to stop them. They'd had to kill a handful to make it out. While the Soldier was under the impression he'd helped stop traitors from destroying HYDRA from within, Brock knew he was the one stabbing HYDRA's back here. The Soldier pointed to the candy still in Brock's hand and continued his explanation. "I am entitled to compensation."

Brock was the one who stared this time because who knew? Who knew that the Winter Soldier could be paid literal peanuts to take a life? The guy was legendary, and he'd always assumed his pay check must be too. The truth was way lamer and weirder. "You kill people so you can _eat_ _?"_

"I eliminate opposition, as well as individuals of interest whose deaths play strategic roles in destabilizing failing institutions so they may be reshaped by more competent hands," the Soldier said and Brock was a hundred percent certain that was a line fed to him by Pierce or someone similar. No way this guy had the capacity for that kind of rationale. The Soldier cocked his head and looked at the candy still in Brock's hands. "I must always meet the required caloric intake to function properly. But I am often rewarded with other foods for my successful efforts."

Brock held back an agitated sigh. Other foods. Meaning here, not some nutrient dense, bland bullshit concocted in a lab somewhere. Flavor was a conditioning tool. Shaking his head, he shoved the candy back into the Soldier's eager hand. "Well, look, we're in uncharted territory, get it? Procedure is being revised as we go. So when we're around other people, just be quiet unless I ask you something, and don't touch anything unless I tell you. Okay?"

The Soldier nodded, the pop and hiss as he opened the can filling the silence.

"Good. We don't need to attract attention and you-"

Brock was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit from the Soldier, Red Bull spewing all over the dashboard and windshield. The Soldier made a low, whining noise in his throat and shook his head. "That is _not_ energy drink," he said in a voice strained from accidentally inhaling Red Bull.

"Jesus God Almighty," Brock muttered, looking out the window and rubbing his face with his hand. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I haven't specified, but this story assumes that while Brock knows of Steve having a friend called Bucky, he is not aware that the Winter Soldier is Bucky. And while he is aware from the conversation in the Vault scene that the Winter Soldier insists he knew Steve, Brock is unaware as to how or why that may be, and he is unaware that Steve recognized the Winter Soldier as Bucky. Why? Because I'm opting for maximum drama that's why.

He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice, so he told the Soldier to stay put when they pulled into the shitty, pot-holed motel parking lot in some nowhere town outside of Nashville. It was better than dragging the idiot inside so he could ask what country music was or what lived in these caves on all the tourist pamphlets at the desk or whatever stupid question his brain might conjure up. The guy at the desk looked bored and inattentive, eyes only seeming to focus when Brock forked over twice the cash amount for the room. He knew that didn't mean shit in terms of the guy keeping his mouth shut if anyone came sniffing around. But it'd buy them a night without an intelligence agency getting a hit on his location because he'd swiped a card, which was the rule in pretty much every hotel Brock knew of.   
  
The room wasn't much, but a bed was a bed and Brock had slept in worse places. He figured the same went for the Soldier, simply because life as a Hydra operative wasn't all that glamorous. Brock had to ration the money, seeing as they didn't have a whole lot of it. It had to last. For how long, he didn't know, but he had to find some way to start making some, quick. That was going to be a project for the night-brainstorming ways to make money that wouldn't attract too much attention. Cash only. He didn't expect the kid to be a whole lot of help with that, since junk food was legal tender in his mind.

He threw his bag on the bed farthest from the door. He was a light sleeper, but it was better to keep the Soldier nearest the point of entry. Anybody who broke in here wasn't going to get back out very easily, if he lived up to his reputation. Which Brock would've thought was a story made up to fleece newbies with if he hadn't been there to see the carnage on the highway the other day. "You sleep there." He pointed as he passed the first bed, doing a quick sweep through the room. No one had been tailing them, and it was unlikely any FBI or leftover Hydra agents were looking for them yet. They had enough on their plates with the mess in DC. It never hurt to be safe, though.

The vulnerable feeling was still hard to shake. He'd stolen one of Hydra's greatest and most valuable assets. Well, maybe what was _once_ their most valuable. He'd heard rumors about a pair of kids in Europe. Something about genetic experiments. Natural mutations made more powerful, not like the Soldier. Maybe the kid was old news now. Maybe that's why Pierce didn't mind throwing him to the dogs like he had. They were moving on. The new world order wouldn't need a liability like the Soldier anymore. He wondered if Pierce ever considered the possibility that one of their own would turn their abandoned weapon against them like he had. Hopefully he wouldn't have to find that out. While it was seriously unlikely Pierce had survived the collapse of the Triskelion, Brock didn't want to think about how much shittier his life would be if he had. All the guy had to do was whistle and the Soldier would probably be at his heel in an instant. That was the impression he'd gotten. Not just from the way the Soldier repeatedly asked for an update on the Secretary's whereabouts and condition, but also from the scene in the vault. Roomful of seasoned field operatives clutching their guns and ready to shit their pants because the Soldier had twitched out of turn. But Pierce strolled into the room without any apparent concern that their killing machine would direct any of his skills towards his boss. It was the kind of power you didn't pay for, or bargain your way into. Pierce completely owned the Soldier, and Brock couldn't begin to think of how he'd done it.  
  
Then he thought of that chair and maybe it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine it and more that he didn't _want_ to. Because if Hydra could make something as strong as the Soldier think he was dependent on them, what chance did an average shithead like Brock or his team ever stand to begin with?

He returned to the bed, digging out his laptop to do some investigating of his own now. He was going to need all the info everyone else had if he was going to keep ahead of them. The radio had said something about a massive amount of files being leaked from SHIELD. He had to know how much the world knew. There was the very real possibility that fellow Hydra agents might not be the people he needed to be worrying about now. He looked up as the computer started, gaze wandering around the room til he finally stopped abruptly on the Soldier, who was staring at him like he was waiting for something.

It was weird.

"The hell're you looking at me for?" Brock asked, typing his password without looking down.

"I'm waiting for orders."

Orders? Did he not see where they were? There was nothing to be done right now. Wasn't it obvious to him that it was time to rest? Brock shrugged. "Do whatever you want. I don't give a shit." He looked back down at the screen to open up a browser. He could still feel the Soldier looking at him. He asked again, "What?"

"What do I want?" the Soldier asked. Not sarcastically, because that would make the conversation feel more normal. It was a genuine request. What in the fuck kind of leadership had this guy been acting under? Brock had assumed the Soldier was a lone agent. Someone who got sent out with orders and carried them out without having to be told when he could take a piss or catch some shut-eye. Now he was starting to wonder if he'd severely misinterpreted what, exactly, the Winter Soldier _was._

"I don't know. Figure it out." He went back to the browser, loading up the news. It was fairly full of what had happened in DC. He clicked a story summarizing everything that had happened since the helicarriers first went up and still he could feel the fucking kid watching him like a hawk. "Fine. Know what?" He leaned over to the nightstand between the beds and swiped the remote. "Watch something. So you quit staring at me like a god damned lovestruck teenager."

The Soldier's eyes went to the television immediately. Independence Day was on. Brock snorted, trying not to remember summer barbecues where he and his team got drunk and watched it yearly as a tradition. Last year they'd even gotten Rogers to make an appearance. It was his birthday, apparently. Couldn't make up shit like that if you tried. He remembered the team's single-minded devotion to trying to get him drunk, and they only managed to get themselves trashed instead. Rogers had seemed to find it amusing. Rumlow told them they were idiots, of course, the only other person who hadn't drowned himself in alcohol that night because _somebody_ had to make sure no one blew off any extremities with M80s.   
  
Rogers had told him before he left for the evening-a birthday thing with his superhero buddies-that he'd appreciated the invite. That it was nice to spend some time with normal people again. That he valued his friendship with the Avengers, but it wasn't the same as 'before'. Rumlow knew what he meant by 'before'-his old military friends. People who were a little more normal, who could make Rogers _feel_ a little more normal. Not billionaires and spies and world-class scientists and alien-gods from other planets. Rumlow had shrugged nonchalantly and offered an 'any time' in response.   
  
It was his job to keep tabs on Rogers. To make him feel welcome in SHIELD, because the more isolated someone felt, the more they spurned everyone else, and the one thing Hydra didn't need was a suspicious, angry, vindictive Captain America looking for faults in his employers to rail against. You had to strike a balance in that way-you wanted him to be lonely enough to seek your companionship, to want a friend badly enough that he'd overlook some of the negatives he might inevitably notice, but not so alienated he couldn't manage that connection to normalcy he craved so badly.  
  
But it didn't matter in the end anyway. Brock's team was definitely gone now, and Rogers would be out for blood soon enough, so that was the end of that. He focused on the article instead. It detailed the incident with the helicarriers. Mentioned Zola's algorithm. Cap and friends apparently did something to get it reprogrammed so the ships would fire on each other instead of the millions of Hydra's undesirables. _Captain Rogers could not be reached for comment._ _So w_ here'd he disappear to? DC wasn't the only place housing Hydra operatives. How could he figure out which trail Rogers would follow next?

"Sir."

He didn't suppress the sigh this time, and he let his head fall back against the headboard as he glared at the ceiling. "What the hell is it now?"

"This seems to be suggesting that extraterrestrials have destroyed a number of major cities worldwide. Is it wise for us to remain in an unsecured location?"

"Oh my fucking God you moron it's a _movie_ _,"_ Brock groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He pulled them away abruptly to gesture at the screen. Did he really have to explain this to a grown ass man? Had he been duped? Had the Soldier been replaced with a failed prototype, too brain-dead to be useful to Hydra? "It's a story, it's made up."

This didn't seem to alleviate the confusion in the Soldier's face. In fact, it just led to more questions. "Why would someone fabricate news of an attack? Is it a misinformation campaign? To create disarray?"

"It's entertainment! No one thinks it's real but you, dumbass!"

The Soldier stared at the movie. Judd Hirsch was complaining about Air Force One. _We could go back, we could go forward, we could go side to side..._ Brock watched with something between fascination and disbelief as the Soldier slightly mirrored the actor's movements, leaning back, then forward, then left to right. He stopped himself abruptly, and his eyes dropped from the television as he seemed to consider something. "It is not real," he said finally.

"No! There's no-" He cut himself off, about to say, _there's no aliens_ _,_ but that wasn't true anymore. He had no idea if the Soldier knew about what'd happened in New York, but Brock wasn't about to bring it up and confuse him further. "There's no invasion going on. It's just a story."

"A story," the Soldier repeated. His brows drew together, something new to puzzle over. "Why tell this story?"

"Ask Roland Emmerich, I don't fucking know! Can I work here or what?" Part of him wanted to ask the Soldier if he really didn't know any stories. But he was afraid if he did that, it'd spiral out of control until he was trying to explain the history of mythology or something. Because he was the best candidate for that job, obviously. The kid was dumber than a box of rocks. Brock briefly considered flipping over to the Weather Channel or Food Network but it seemed like a useless effort in the end. He'd just ask questions no matter what was on the TV and Brock would be irritated about it either way. This was his life now, explaining reality to a fucking shut-in paid in gummi worms. This was what he'd chosen for himself. God almighty.  
  
He got a torrent going of the leaks, glancing over the file names. There were so many he almost felt like there was no point in even looking. With this much information, how was he supposed to find the pertinent stuff? How was he supposed to keep ahead of intelligence agencies and law enforcement that would have dozens and dozens, if not hundreds, of people working all this out to plan their next move? A lot of it was obvious stuff. There was a directory. Not just of Hydra, but of every agency they infected. The agents and soldiers they had among their ranks. The potential candidates for recruitment. The ones flagged as undesirables. He'd be in there, and STRIKE, in the subfolder on SHIELD.   
  
There were inventories. Property listings. Armories. Even boring ass IT changelogs. The Widow hadn't held back on anything. There were files on every operation undertaken in recent history. The older shit from before World War II had been compartmentalized into one file, brief summaries for posterity, he guessed. Just to have the record accessible. Hydra tried to distance itself a little from the Nazi thing. It wasn't exactly good PR for potential new recruits. Maybe they'd gotten a lot of funding for research from Hitler's Germany, but the modern genocide didn't give a shit about your genetics. It just wanted to get rid of the people who'd end up trying to rock the boat. Which now, he figured, included him.  
  
It wasn't until he scrolled to the end that he paused to consider opening one of them. Second from the bottom, right above a file on Zola, Arnim, there was _Zima-Operatsiya_ , _Konditsionirovaniye_ , _i Obrashcheniye_. Russian wasn't a language he knew terribly well. He'd been schooled in Farsi and Spanish. But he knew a handful of things, elementary shit like numbers up to ten, and colors, and hello, my name is... Zima was Winter. He glanced over at the Soldier, who was quietly transfixed now by the movie. He prioritized the folder.   
  
It was longer than he expected. There had always been rumors about the guy, one of them being his immortality. It was one of the more ridiculous urban legends passed around Hydra and Brock hadn't thought anything of it. So it was a little startling to see the folder dated back all the way to 1944. He tried to rationalize it the best he could. Maybe Winter Soldier was a mantle, something passed along to dozens of different individuals over the course of decades. Maybe it was a typo.   
  
But then he saw the gritty, low-res black and white pictures and it was harder to deny it. There were twenty-six mug shots in all. Every one of them was male, and they looked on the young side, the oldest _maybe_ hitting thirty or so, the youngest hardly looking eighteen. It was kind of hard to tell, given the shitty quality of the pictures and the fact that they all looked kind of exhausted and worse for wear. Beneath each photo was a serial number. Beneath every serial number was the word 'nonviable'. Except for one guy. Brock studied the photo with drawn brows and it wasn't that he was surprised. Just, maybe it was a little surreal. From what he'd seen of the Soldier so far, he was quiet, submissive, cautious. The guy in the picture stared defiantly, angrily at the camera. And there was fear, yeah. But Brock knew as well as any soldier that fear didn't mean shit unless you let it.  
  
So what had happened?  
  
He knew he should've been checking out the files on safe houses and armories, figuring out what was officially cataloged and what wasn't. But he needed to know what he could about the Soldier, too. It'd already been pretty clear he hadn't known what he was getting when he sprang the guy, so here was his chance to see if he'd gotten in over his head or not. If he was better off abandoning the Soldier in this hotel and letting him fend for himself.  
  
The paragraph beneath the pool of photos gave a brief summary of some of Zola's research and experiments. The twenty-six men were prisoners of American, British, and French armies. It didn't take into consideration race, religion, social class, sexual orientation, or any of the other fun stuff Hydra's Nazi bosses at the time told them they were supposed to care about. So they were equal opportunity war criminals. Progressive shit.   
  
Arnim Zola was trying to work out his own version of a super soldier serum. It sounded goofy, really, but then Brock had met and worked with Steve "parachutes are for chumps" Rogers so it was hard to deny that such a thing was possible. Brock didn't know a whole lot about the origin of the serum, but it was common enough knowledge that nothing else like it had ever existed. Rogers was the first, and the last.   
  
But according to this, that wasn't the case. One by one, Zola tested out a variety of formulas on the men pictured. Brock couldn't help how his lip curled as he skimmed over the results. Some of the guys were lucky. They just died right away. Cardiac arrest. Aneurysms. Some of the others, not so much. Some, their hair and teeth fell out. Others suffered ruptured organs. Sloughing skin. Blood coming out of places it had no business coming out of. Tumors, decay. Then number twenty-six came along.

Pain, apparently, was to be expected. Brock was no biologist, but he imagined most people don't have a good time when their DNA gets shuffled like a card deck in Vegas. Far as he knew, only people that kind of thing happened to were people exposed to radiation. And it tended to cause things like cancer. Number twenty-six spent thirty-three and a half agonizing hours strapped to a cot, seizing, vomiting, screaming when he could manage it and then-  
  
It didn't say how they knew he was a success. There was a gap of about a year's worth of information. It mentioned 'recovering' subject twenty-six in February of 1945. There was another photo. It was the Soldier, subject twenty-six, propped up in a corner. He looked nearly dead, eyes half-lidded, no energy for defiance like the last picture. His hair was a mess. Dried blood caked his face under his nostrils, his lips. His left arm was gone from just above the elbow.  
  
He looked over at the Soldier again, eyeing the metal arm and wondering whether any of his real arm was left under it. Couldn't be, right? Wouldn't it decay or get messed up somehow, being encased in metal all the time? So was it sawn off? The thought made him feel a little sick. The guy hadn't volunteered for this shit. He was a prisoner, injected with some experimental drug that killed everybody else, and then they tore his arm off to put that freaky monstrosity on him instead. Seventy some years later and all the guy could care about was where and when they'd meet up with his captors.  
  
How had he been made that way? Did Brock really want an answer? He remembered the chair, a mumbled conversation with Pierce, the Soldier imploring his greatest source of knowledge for information about a target he swore he knew. And now that Brock saw these files from World War II, maybe it wasn't just misfiring synapses. Maybe it wasn't just confusion over seeing a picture of Captain America on a Wheaties box from the seventies in a target's home. There now seemed to be a real possibility that he had seen Rogers before. Would Rogers know the guy if he saw him now? And if he did, how pissed was he going to be with Brock for what'd been done to him?

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm still here...I experienced a loss this summer that sort of delivered a blow to my will to write(or do much of anything!) But here I am now with a paltry offering. I've missed Bucky, and all of you :)))

Brock ordered a pizza, giving a fake name and paying in cash. He didn't bother asking the Soldier for preferences as he had a feeling the guy wasn't going to have any. That or it'd be like pulling teeth trying to get him to pick one from a list of meats and vegetables as he requested an essay-length breakdown of what they were. And part of it was admittedly that Brock didn't give a shit what the Soldier wanted on a pizza because he was stressed out and had done the guy a solid by springing him from HYDRA anyway so he _deserved_ his choice of two pizza toppings. Onions and pepperoni were delicious, so the Soldier would have to agree with that or starve.   
  
He wasn't about to blame himself for not detailing the process of pizza delivery to the Soldier, but maybe he should've thought about it ahead of time. Hindsight was 20/20 and all that. The knock at the door had the Soldier on his feet with a gun pointed at about chest level and Brock hissed immediately, "Put it down, dumbass! It's the pizza!"  
  
The Soldier faltered, confused for a second and Brock seriously half-expected him to ask how a pizza could knock on a door. He didn't move until Brock jerked him back by the elbow. Brock slipped out the door, unwilling to let the Soldier interact with another human being. Money changed hands and it was over like that. No guns necessary.   
  
He returned to the room, careful to throw a casual glance around the parking lot first. Most SHIELD recon vehicles were your typical SUVs with the windows tinted just enough so you couldn't see through to the occupants. Sometimes they'd send out somebody in a Charger or a similarly powerful pursuit vehicle, if they thought the person they were watching was going to flee. But the cars in the lot were more reflective of what you'd expect from the clientele of a low-end motel. Beat up. Rusted around the wheel wells. One was covered in political bumper stickers. So not exactly anything for him to be worried about.   
  
Only one car stood out. An Impala. Looked like an older model of undercover cop car, with the spotlight still perched above the driver sideview mirror. Maybe civilian, maybe not. He couldn't be one hundred percent certain. The plates weren't government issue. There was a sticker in the windshield, but it was too far for him to tell at a glance what it was for. Maybe a parking pass. In a couple of hours he'd go looking for the ice machine and take a path that went by the vehicle, if it was still there.  
  
He'd been out of the room for only a few seconds but when he opened the door he nearly busted the Soldier's nose with it. The kid jerked back, allowing him enough room to come back inside, and he watched Brock expectantly, like he was waiting for a debriefing of the situation or something. "What?" Brock asked, a question he felt he was going to be very familar with before this was all said and done. Unless he started learning the Soldier's silent language of facial expressions.  
  
"I had to be certain of your safety," he explained like it was obvious that Brock could have come under harm from a pizza delivery driver.   
  
Part of him thought he should be patient, like he would be when training new SHIELD recruits. But then part of him thought, if those files on his computer were to be believed, the Soldier was older than Brock's fucking grandparents and he should probably know better. "What'd you think was going to happen?" he asked anyway, locking the door.  
  
"It is possible we are being pursued," the Soldier said without missing a beat. "Anyone could be a combatant."  
  
Brock took a second to picture the pizza delivery kid, all gangly one hundred thirty pounds of him, hefting the red delivery bag onto his shoulder only to draw out a gun instead of a pizza. There was a corny, 80s action movie one-liner in there about hot lead but Brock was too tired and annoyed to come up with it himself. "I don't think we have to worry about that," he said, dropping back down on his bed. The Soldier still stood by the door, uncertain. He watched as Brock set the box on the night stand between the beds. It wasn't the nicest pizza, but he wanted cheap. At least until he figure out a better financial situation than the one they were currently in.   
  
The first bite tasted amazing all the same. For a second he didn't have to worry about the idiot Soldier or the possible encroaching SHIELD or HYDRA agents. Not a thought for Captain America's inevitable vengeance. It was just him, and a piece of pizza. He'd earned that much, right?  
  
Halfway through his first piece, he realized the Soldier was still standing there at the foot of the beds. He wasn't watching Brock like a hawk, at least, and he seemed to be carefully avoiding looking at the food. "You gonna eat or what?" Brock asked. It wasn't the most comfortable thing, to have a killing machine stand by while you ate.  
  
There was a brief silence. The Soldier looked startled for a second, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Then he asked, "Is it permitted?"  
  
"I'm assuming you aren't battery powered here," Brock said. "You need calories the same as anybody else, right?" The kid had said as much after the gummi worms fiasco at the gas station. Only maybe he didn't eat normal food all that often. He hadn't gotten that far into the Winter Soldier document yet, but Brock was sure there'd be something in there on how much food and what kinds the Soldier was supposed to be eating. Still, he only had what was available, so normal food was going to have to do the job.

"I require three times the caloric intake as the average atheltic male," the Soldier said matter of factly.   
  
Brock stared. "Three. Three times?" The Soldier nodded. He hadn't been thinking. Cap famously ate enough to feed an entire STRIKE team. The Soldier was similar to him. And Brock thought half a pizza was going to be enough to satisfy his appetite. "Shit," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the hand that wasn't greasy. "Well, look, this is what we have for now. You can split this with me. It oughta hold you over." He hadn't counted calories since he was younger and just figuring out how much he needed to sustain his active lifestyle and physically demanding job. Half a large pizza made a decent enough meal for him-if not a particularly healthy one. How far would that go for the Soldier, though?  
  
He didn't seem concerned with that, eyes flicking towards and away from the pizza like it was the answer key to a test he hadn't studied for. He sat on the other bed before blurting, "I am not begging, sir." The words burst out like he'd been holding them back for awhile now.  
  
Brock curled his lip. At the pathetic self-admonition or the fact that somebody had made the Soldier think merely _looking_ at a fucking pizza counted as begging, he wasn't sure. Maybe both were annoying. One of the most powerful men to ever walk the Earth shouldn't have been reduced to this. Brock wanted to believe in HYDRA and its goal of unifying the world into something better than it was now. But was this the kind of future that waited for them if they achieved that?   
  
No. They respected him. They respected his team and the people who fought for them. It was just-Things had gone wrong, with Steve and his friends. They weren't like the Soldier, Brock and the other field agents. This was a different situation. A weird one, sure, but the same rules didn't apply.   
  
He shoved the box a little closer to the Soldier's side like he could shove the annoying train of thought away with it. "Whatever, just eat the damn food already."  
  
The Soldier finally picked up a piece and took a bite. He froze for a second, eyes on Brock, like he was waiting to be yelled at. Brock made a point of ignoring him, too tired to yell at him for giving him the deer in headlights look. And was it really the kid's fault if he'd been conditioned to think he'd get yelled at over a god damned pizza? Then the Soldier said quietly, "I have never eaten this before."  
  
"Hell of a lot better than gummi worms, I can tell you that," Brock answered back without looking over. He dragged his laptop over instead, diving back into the leaks. They ate in silence, Brock reading, and the Soldier apparently too enraptured by a cheap fast-food pizza to need anymore entertainment than the novelty of the taste.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Brock didn't remember falling asleep. It took him a half-second or so to process his surroundings, to remember the shitty motel, the Soldier, everything. He shoved the still-open laptop that was on the bed beside him out of the way. He must've passed out while reading the leaks, exhausted after a day of running and stress. A glance at the drawn curtains of the window told him it was still dark out, no bright thin lines of light around the edges.   
  
The blue glow of the screen lit the room in a soft, eery light, catching someone moving and he felt himself go tense. The Soldier stood at the door, much like he had when the pizza delivery guy had knocked on it. "What're you doing?" Brock asked, voice croaking a little after being woken so abruptly.   
He didn't get an answer. He heard the beep of a key card in the reader on the door, and then the lock sliding back. His mind drifted back to the parking lot, the one suspicious car he'd meant to check on. But he'd fallen asleep like a fucking moron instead before securing their surroundings. He moved to the foot of the bed, reaching across empty space to tug his bag off the desk. His handgun was in there.   
  
He hadn't seen the Soldier in a fight. The way out of the Vault was less of a fight and more of a slaughter. All the combat ready agents had already been on the way to the Triskelion. It hadn't been a challenge in the least, just point and shoot. And even then, they'd only had to knock off a few people. No one Brock knew. He wasn't too involved in R&D or medical, didn't know the staff as a result. All that being said, he dared to hope the Soldier lived up to his reputation as a killing machine. It might be their only chance of making it out of the bottleneck that was their crappy, tiny motel room.   
  
The door was pushed open silently, just enough for someone to push something through to unlock the latch near the top of the door. The Soldier didn't seem too bothered by that. Brock figured the same thing-whoever was out there wanted in here. Locking back up would only save them so much time and that was the only way out. This had to end in a fight, no matter what.   
  
He held his gun at the ready. The door opened. Then all hell broke loose because apparently the Soldier didn't fuck around after all. The first person stepped in and right away Brock knew something wasn't right here. The guy, dressed in dark street clothes and a ski mask, not the tactical gear he would've expected of anyone coming after them, started to shout, "Wake up bitch!" His gun had been pointed towards the beds, like he thought they were still in it despite all the noise he'd made in unlocking the room.   
  
The Soldier didn't take any of this into consideration. A threat was a threat, regardless of the source. He jerked the man forward from the wrist and kneed him in the gut. Then he dropped an elbow on the back of his skull. The guy stumbled forward with a cry. Brock took him and shoved him to the ground while the Soldier made quick work of the other person who'd been behind the first. Another guy, a little bigger, more solid, armed, but it was like nothing for the Soldier to yank him inside and slam him into the wall, cracking the plaster.  
  
One of the guns went off. Brock was sure it wasn't his. Somebody in a nearby room shouted out at the noise. "Get off me!" the first guy snarled. The second guy's face was a bloody mess and he was shooting blind. Brock shoved himself back as another two shots popped off. The Soldier grabbed the second guy by the wrist, yanking the arm around the man's back and twisting until something cracked, followed by a pained scream.   
  
The first guy pushed himself up, aiming for the Soldier. "Let him go man, let him go!" he cried, shooting wildly before Brock could tackle him back to the ground. The Soldier hardly seemed to notice as the bullets pinged ineffectively against his left hand or arm, like he was swatting at mosquitoes instead of deadly projectiles. He was more focused on smashing the second guy's face into the hardwood floor.   
  
"Jesus, kid, that's enough!" Brock snapped after hearing the guy's nose break. He was pretty sure the guy was finished after the Soldier dislocated his shoulder. Given their entrance, their clothes, the lack of finesse and firepower, Brock was almost certain the pair were just idiot criminals. "Just hold him! Hold him!" Brock ordered, doing the same to the struggling guy beneath him.   
  
The Soldier did so, jerking the man's wrists behind his back with one hand and pulling the gun away with the other. Not that the guy was putting up a fight anymore. Brock grimaced at the blood smeared on the floor. So much for a low profile. For fuck's sake, of all the rooms these jackasses could've picked...  
  
"Lemme go!" the first guy shouted from under Brock.   
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Brock demanded.  
  
"None of your business, man!"  
  
"I don't have the time or the patience," Brock muttered, jerking the ski mask off the guy's face. He let out a laugh. Not a happy one, as usual. It was the fucking desk clerk. He rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger before looking back down at the guy. "That what you do? You rip people off who pay you good money to stay in this shithole?"  
  
"Don't flash your fuckin' cash around and you won't get robbed!" the guy spat back, still keeping up the tough guy act. Brock could feel him shaking, though.   
  
"Who's getting robbed here? Looks like you and your pal got your shit pushed in," Brock said, nodding to the unconscious guy to the left. What a god damned mess. They could've stayed in any number of cheap fleabags, and he had the shit luck of picking the one the proprietor used to double dip. The guy must've thought Brock was alone. An easy mark for two guys with guns. Especially if they barged in unexpectedly while the target was sleeping and disoriented.   
  
"Whatever man! You better let us go! We got connections around here!"  
  
That time he did laugh with a degree of amusement. "That so? What kind of connections they have out here in the sticks? The Clampettes run this town or what?"   
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
He sighed heavily. "What're we going to do here," he muttered to himself. The Soldier had nearly bludgeoned some piece of white trash to death. This dumbass was definitely going to run his mouth if they let him go. Somebody was probably already calling the cops about the gunfire. They had to move, and they had to do it fast. "Soldier," he said. "Get our shit together. Put it in the back seat. These two are going in the trunk."  
  
"The fuck you said?" the desk clerk shouted.   
  
He ignored him, watching instead as the Soldier packed away the laptop, the phone charging on the night stand. Stupid as these guys were, it was unlikely they left any security cameras running if they were committing crimes like this. So they at least didn't have to worry about that. What they did have to worry about was when the next shift was going to pick up. Maybe it had already. It had been several hours since they checked in with this little shit at the desk. He didn't bother asking since the guy was probably just going to tell him to fuck off, and it didn't matter in the end. He was going to be missed by somebody. If he was that involved in crimes around here that he claimed to have 'connections' with anybody, maybe it wouldn't be that surprising to the police. "You just had to complicate this, didn't you?" Brock complained as he stood up, dragging the guy to his feet.   
  
He immediately jerked and squirmed, trying to kick at Brock. "Let me go! Let me go, man!"   
  
"Soldier," Brock said. The kid had the other guy hefted over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "In the trunk, there's a little handle on the inside. It's like plastic, with a glow in the dark coating. Rip it out before you close the thing, okay?"  
  
The Soldier nodded, dumping the unconscious guy in the trunk. He heard it when the Soldier pulled out the interior trunk release. He was at least thoughtful enough not to leave it behind. Brock took one last look around the room for any significant evidence of their stay. Any hairs they found off the Soldier probably wouldn't be matched to any DNA records. Brock on the other hand...  
  
But nothing could really be done about that.   
  
He threw the mouthy fucker into the trunk and the Soldier slammed it closed. "Get in," Brock said, jerking his chin towards the passenger seat. He tested the trunk one last time, just to be sure it was going to stay closed. He figured they'd drive for awhile before dumping the pair of thieves out in the woods somewhere, off some other nowhere exit along a county road. Sun probably wouldn't be up yet, adding to their disorientation. He had that time to decide whether to let them live or not.   
  
Dropping into the driver seat, he headed for the highway, westbound. Police flew by in the other lane. Two cars. Brock was on the interstate by the time they reached the hotel. Didn't mean they were home free just yet, but at least they'd be out of the crappy little town within minutes.   
  
Things were silent for a bit, save the guy who was still conscious kicking and screaming. He was a fighter, Brock would give him that. But he didn't like criminals. Part of what he'd liked about Hydra was that they'd do what was necessary to rid the world of scum like this. No beating around the bush. No garbage excuses about the impacts of poverty or whatever other bullshit people used to justify letting men like this roam the streets. What if it'd been some old lady in that room? A mom with two kids? The thought had him edging towards the decision to put a bullet in both the low lives. What were they going to contribute to the world, anyway?   
  
"They were not Hydra," the Soldier said eventually, like maybe he'd just now come to that realization and wanted to bring Brock up to speed.   
  
"No," Brock agreed. The kid knew Hydra might be after them. Or at least, the part that had allegedly turned against them.   
  
There was silence, like the Soldier was waiting for him to say more. But Brock didn't have much else to say. So the Soldier finally asked, "Who are they?"  
  
Brock looked over at the Soldier. He was looking at Brock expectantly, patiently. Mildly concerned, apparently. "What do you mean 'who are they'?" He shrugged. "They're crooks. Robbers. They saw I had cash, thought I was alone, and they wanted it."  
  
The Soldier looked down for a second, brows drawn together. He seemed to think this over before looking back up at Brock to ask, "Why?"  
  
"Why what?"   
  
"Why did they want it? The money?"  
  
Brock rubbed at his eyes, adrenaline worn off by now. He was ready to go back to sleep but knew they wouldn't be stopping again for a long time, once they got rid of the thieves. "'Cause it's money. Some people will get it however they can, no matter who they end up hurting."  
  
"Why would they hurt someone for money?" the Soldier asked, the mystery apparently becoming more engrossing the more he learned.   
  
Brock pulled a face, which anyone else would've read obviously as him wondering about the kid's intelligence. Then he sighed through his nose when he remembered the Soldier got paid in _flavors_ so maybe he'd been the idiot for assuming he'd know anything about why anyone would need money. If he didn't get paid, and Hydra provided everything else for him, what would he know about cash and its uses? "Money gets you things. You know? This car. Your clothes. Your weapons. Whatever the hell they fed you. It all costs money. Some people have plenty. More than enough. Other people have hardly any, so some people pull stunts like this to get it." He jerked his chin back towards the trunk.   
  
The Soldier seemed to consider this, brow still furrowed in concentration. "If those without money need it so badly that they would kill for it, why don't the people who have more than enough share it with the ones that don't have it?"  
  
Brock laughed and the Soldier instantly looked down at his lap. He looked humiliated and Brock faltered. He didn't feel _bad_ exactly but... "It's-Hey, look, that's a nice thought. It really is. It's just kind of funny, you know? Those files said the Soviets had you for decades so I wonder if that's commie bullshit they filled your head with or if you thought that up all on your own."  
  
The Soldier's eyes seemed to burn into his own clenched hands. He asked in a quiet voice, like he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid of suffering further embarrassment, "What is commie bullshit?"  
  
"The whole spreading the wealth thing. Some people don't like that. They figure they worked hard for their money, so they shouldn't have to give it away to others who don't."  
  
Of course, that clarified nothing. The Soldier's face twisted into further confusion and he said, "Then why do those without money not simply work for their money?"  
  
Brock blew out a breath, trying to stay focused on the road. He was tired, and couldn't decide if this conversation was welcome or not. On the one hand, it kept him awake and focused on something. On the other hand, the kid asked a lot of damn questions and never seemed satisfied with an answer. "Pretty much everybody _does_ work. Even the people without much money. It's just, not everybody gets paid the same amount, you see?"  
  
Predictably, the Soldier asked, "Why?"  
  
"Because not all jobs are worth the same pay." He rolled his shoulders and sat back, trying to frame it in a context the Soldier might understand. "Look. Doctors get paid a lot, right?"  
  
The Soldier's face made it plain he didn't know if they did or not.   
  
"Well, they do," Brock continued. "But they also have to be very, very educated to do what they do. So their pay reflects that. You wouldn't pay a doctor the same way you pay, like..." He snapped his fingers, trying to come up with a profession the Soldier might know something about. But he was drawing blanks. Most of the people he interacted with were high paid professionals with impressive degrees, or Hydra black-ops agents who worked their asses off to get where they were. None of it was exactly entry-level work. So he jerked his thumb back at the trunk. "Like those guys. They don't get paid jack shit because how hard is it to run a motel? Maybe it's not the simplest job, but it's not brain surgery either, you know?"  
  
Finally the Soldier seemed to be getting it. He nodded slowly, eyes drifting back out the window. Then he turned back to Brock again and Brock sighed as he asked, "Why do they not pay the motel worker _more_ if they are being paid so little that they want to steal from people?"  
  
"Because life fucking sucks, alright?" Brock snapped. Immediately the Soldier looked forward, out the front of the car, and went tense. Brock heard something that he realized was the Soldier's mechanical arm whirring a little harder, and he caught a few of the plated pieces at his wrist moving towards each other. Neither of them said anything more for a long while, sitting in awkward silence instead. With every mile he put between himself and the Triskelion, he was regretting this entire shitty operation more and more.   
  
  
  


 


	5. Chapter 5

It was about four hours and one state line later and he'd started seeing signs for a national forest. He took one of the exits. Nobody was making any noise in the trunk anymore. Not that Brock could hear, anyway. He wasn't sure if that meant the one conscious guy had given up or if he was just getting more pissed. Wouldn't be his problem soon. He followed the winding back roads, looking for something as desolate as possible. Somewhere empty. It was still barely dark out, so most, if not all, people out in these parts were probably still sleeping.   
  
Finally he found some cover for the vehicle. An old, rotting building that looked like it was going to fall in on itself any minute. He glanced in the rear-view mirror for any headlights. Then ahead. There were none. Probably wouldn't be for some time. He glanced at his phone. Didn't have a signal. Carefully, he pulled the car around back, doing his best to keep it out of view of the road.   
  
"Okay. We're going to march them out into the woods here." Brock dug through his bag, pulling out his pistol. "You take the bigger one. Got it?"  
  
The Soldier nodded. Brock stepped out of the car. The air was a little chilly, but nothing unbearable. One of the two idiots in the trunk must've realized they'd stopped moving, because he'd started up his shouting again. There was a distinctly frightened edge to it. Brock couldn't quite make out what the guy was saying but it didn't matter. He unlocked the trunk, threw it open, and the second the guy saw the gun pointed in his face, his voice faltered. "You wanna stay alive, you keep your mouth shut, you understand?" Brock demanded.   
  
"Let me go, man, I won't tell anyone-"  
  
Brock responded by pulling the slide back and the guy made a low whining noise and screwed his eyes shut. Close enough. Brock glanced at the Soldier and nodded. The kid did as he was told, pulling the other thief out of the trunk. Brock wasn't sure if he was projecting or not when he thought the Soldier looked unhappy with doing this. The talk in the car made it plain to him the Soldier wasn't as thoughtless as Brock had initially believed. He may not have been the most well-informed individual, but he was curious and did his best to understand the information he was given. Brock just had to hope he wasn't ready to start making executive decisions, too.   
  
A little too angrily, he grabbed the still-whimpering thief by his arm and jerked him out of the trunk. The other guy was still alive, it turned out. He was starting to come around, but the Soldier still had to practically drag him as they moved further into the dark woods.   
  
They walked, mostly in silence, the only noise the first thief's sniveling and the second one's pained groans. The Soldier said nothing, waiting for Brock's signal, watching him with caution. Or maybe he was projecting again.   
  
"Here," Brock muttered.   
  
They stopped abruptly when he said it. Brock shoved the thief to his knees, and the sobbing started up. "Come on man, I swear to God, we won't tell anybody a fucking thing-"  
  
Brock shot him. He regretted that the people around these parts, living out at the edge of the wilderness, would probably recognize the noise for what it was if they heard it. It wasn't like some quiet little suburb that would sooner write it off as kids with fireworks because this sort of thing just _didn't happen_ in their town. He shot the other one right after.   
  
They didn't have a whole lot of options when it came to disposal. He hadn't really anticipated having to kill any civilians. They were out in the woods, sure, but not far enough away to ensure the bodies wouldn't be found eventually. Maybe not today, maybe not even by the end of the week. But if somebody heard the gunshots, people might be cautious. Attentive. His only hope was that something came along and ate them before a person stumbled on them.   
  
"Come on. Let's get the hell out of here," he said to the Soldier. He didn't look back at the kid as they walked and he was probably imagining it that he was being given a look of disappointment, or something like it. He sighed through his nose.   
  
They didn't pass anyone on the road for a long time. The sun climbed up, casting the sky in its warm, pink glow. He kept it to their right whenever he could, keeping the car pointed north. Not that he was sure where they should go. What had he been thinking? Who the hell did he think he was? Hydra was crumbling. Nowhere was safe for him now. And the Soldier-  
  
He curled his lip when he glanced at the kid, who was staring out the window. "What?" he snapped. He didn't like that look. Not that he could specify how the Soldier's current expression was any different from what he normally wore. But it suddenly felt a little too personal, a little too judgemental, and he wasn't going to tolerate it. This dumbass didn't get to pass moral judgements on him when he didn't even understand what robbery _was.  
  
_ "Is death the punishment for stealing?" the Soldier asked. He didn't sound scornful when he said it. He just sounded genuinely curious. Brock wasn't sure the Soldier knew how to make his voice sound disappointed or not.  
  
"For fuck's sake," he muttered.  
  
"If I understand correctly, I almost stole from the resupply point. Until you corrected me."  
  
Brock concentrated, trying to understand what the hell he was talking about. "The gas station," Brock said once he realized what 'resupply point' meant.  
  
The Soldier looked at him, uncertain, but nodded all the same. "Would they have killed me? If you had not noticed?"  
  
"No, dumbass. I didn't kill them because they tried to steal from us. I killed them because-" He sighed angrily and dragged his hand back through his hair. "They were-" Lowlives? Criminals? Like Brock was now? "Fuck, it's not like I explicitly _wanted_ to murder a couple of people today. They made their choice when they broke into our room. They could've had good, honest jobs running that place but they wanted to sweeten the pot. Well, they stuck their grimy paws in the wrong fucking beehive, okay? You understand me?"  
  
The Soldier stared at him, eyes gone wide again and Brock wanted to punch him until they swelled shut and he never had to look at them again. "Beehive," the Soldier whispered, eyes drifting slowly down as he mulled it over.   
  
Brock rolled his skyward briefly. "God, you're fucking stupid," he muttered. He kept his eyes on the road but glanced at the Soldier sometimes as he spoke. "We couldn't let them go and tell anyone about us. And it's not like I could let them go back to robbing people at gunpoint, you know? We did society a favor."  
  
The Soldier pressed his lips together tightly, a sure sign that he was preparing some kind of question. Then he looked at Brock, eyebrows still tugged together. "When I behave poorly, I am corrected with punishments."  
  
"Yeah," Brock said. Not that he knew. He hadn't gotten to read too much of the files on the Soldier, and he'd only witnessed any kind of 'punishments' once. It was that chair that had him screaming like he was dying and that seemed less like a punishment and more like a necessity to keep him in line.   
  
"It's different? For others?"  
  
"Yeah," Brock repeated. He didn't feel like doing this again. Another examination of his ethics by someone who hadn't interacted with society at large in decades. It was some kind of sick joke and it wasn't his job to teach this idiot a damn thing.   
  
The Soldier nodded now, going back to looking out his window. Which was fine by Brock. He had nothing else to say to the ungrateful bastard. He could've left him with Hydra. Left him to be killed or arrested then killed. And he got questioned like this in return?   
  
When Brock flipped on the radio it might've been the angriest way anyone had ever done such a mundane thing. Of course there was nothing but country stations and he hated them all but it was either that or listen to the drone of the engine as he maintained a perfect forty miles per hour on the winding country roads.   
  
He made it 'til about eleven-thirty before he had to stop. They'd been going for a bit over five hours and he'd been running off of too little sleep as it was. The shitty weather wasn't helping anything. He was hungry and he needed a coffee or a bed. Maybe they could ditch this vehicle altogether, just in case the model and license plate were recorded in the hotel registry. Leave it in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It'd probably go unnoticed for awhile that way, in a big enough town. He'd seen signs for St. Louis, so he figured it was as good a bet as any.   
  
Sure enough, there were a few different superstores to choose from and he picked one at random. He parked as near to the middle of the lot as he could. "Come on," he said to the Soldier. "We're getting food." There were plenty of places in the area, but a buffet had caught his eye. He figured it was the best way to keep the Soldier fed. And a local joint wasn't as risky as a chain might be.  
  
Grimacing at the rain, he jogged across the lot to the shelter of the restaurant. He ran his hands through his hair to try to shake out some of the water and when he looked over his shoulder, he sighed. The kid was just walking through the rain like he was completely fine with getting drenched. Brock clenched his jaw to hold back from shouting at him and attracting attention.    
  
Brock had a table in the corner by the time the Soldier made it in. Those big eyes were searching the place and found him easy enough. "You look like a drowned rat," Brock muttered at him. His hair was plastered to his face and the Soldier made no move to fix it, to push it back away from his eyes. Surely that wasn't all that comfortable. His clothes were damp and the shirt and jacker that were a size too large to accommodate his left arm didn't help him look any less disheveled.  
  
"This is bad," the Soldier said more than asked. At least he was getting the hang of shit.  
  
"Uh, yeah. Next time show a little hustle and you won't get soaked."  
  
"Why is it bad to be wet?"   
  
"It's not-" Brock shrugged and shook his head. He just couldn't be bothered with explaining all this shit over and over. But he knew he'd have to keep doing it. At least these topics were easier. Less frustrating than those near-accusatory questions about 'punishments'. "Just sit there. Don't talk to anybody. I'll be back in a second," he said, waiting to see the Soldier nod back at him. 

Sighing through his nose, he left the Soldier alone at the table in spite of how little desire he had to do so. All it would take is five minutes. A five minute chat with anyone _normal_ and they'd know right away something was wrong here. A five minute head start out the door and Brock would lose his best protection in a post-Hydra America. A five minute conversation that led to misunderstandings and a corpse in a fucking Indian lunch buffet and they'd both be fugitives to someone more than an overloaded intelligence agency. That had him scooping food left and right onto the plates. Rice and samosas. Masala this, tandoori that, he didn't give a shit. His eyes were hardly even on the food with how much he looked back at the Soldier. No one approached the table. The kid didn't _leave_ the table. And maybe it didn't have to be all doom and gloom. Maybe the shitshow at the motel had him paranoid now. Maybe if he'd actually been _more_ paranoid, said shitshow never would've happened.

He tried to let it go when he finally sat back down. Dwelling helped nothing. What was done was done. Just as he always had, he forced himself to focus on the present. Getting through this lunch quietly, without attracting any unwanted attention. He slid a plate towards the Soldier and nodded to him. "It's a buffet. I figure that's the best bang for our buck given your daily caloric intake." Which was god damn astounding, actually. He thought they'd both have pretty decent appetites. He just hadn't realized _how_ decent the Soldier's would be until he'd told him and the files confirmed it. There was no way Brock could feed them both without possibly causing some suspicion, not until he'd found a source of cash that wasn't linked back to an ATM. 

"Buck," the Soldier whispered. He seemed sort of zoned out as he said it. But then he blinked and asked, "What is a buffet?" For all the ways he could murder a person, he sure was meek as hell. It seemed wrong, in a way. The Winter Soldier was a legend, a force of fucking nature. He wasn't supposed to be _timid_ _._ But here he was, a mythical superhuman hit man who could hardly stand to look anyone in the eye for more than half a second.

"It's a place where you pay a set amount and eat as much as you want. You remember money, right? Paying for things?" He scooped something into his mouth, something with vegetables and a yellow sauce. Tasted fine enough.  
  
"Money gets you things," the Soldier confirmed. So he could learn and remember what he'd been taught. Good to know. He picked up a piece of chicken that was very, very red, and he turned it every which way, studying it from every angle possible. God only knew what he was looking for. Then he turned perplexed eyes to Brock. "Food is necessary for functioning. Why is it necessary to pay money?"

"Somebody's gotta make the food and they aren't about to do it for free, right?"

"But we must eat, or we die."

Brock tried out some of the stuff with the garbanzo beans in it. It was lukewarm. "Yeah, but there's soup kitchens and shit for people like that. Charity. Welfare. We have money, so we pay."

"Why?"

He closed his eyes and huffed a breath. Who knew a fucking hundred year old assassin could be so damn inquisitive? "Because that's how it works. Some people don't have money, so they get food paid for by our taxes. My taxes." He corrected himself, even if the idea of the Winter Soldier sitting down across from a petrified suit at an H&R Block to discuss his potential deductions was almost enough to make this whole stupid conversation worth it all.

"Taxes?"

"Jesus, kid, I'm not a fucking economist, alright? We gotta get you on Wikipedia or something, 'cause I can't do this shit."

The Soldier shut up immediately, dropping his eyes to his plate. He tentatively unwrapped a samosa from its fried shell instead of just biting into it. Brock thought to correct him but somehow it almost seemed futile. Like for every dumb thing he corrected the Soldier about there'd be a billion more mistakes to take its place. Answer one painfully stupid question, two more take its place. There was silence at the table, at least giving Brock some time to eat. He flicked his eyes to the Soldier's plate every now and then, making sure he was actually eating. It wasn't long before their first two plates of food were empty and he was running back for another pair.

He sat down a little heavier than he meant to. The plates rattled and the Soldier's eyes flicked up immediately. Was it possible for them to be any wider? It wasn't that he looked afraid, exactly. It was almost like some kind of disbelief. Or curiosity. Or both, like he couldn't believe all this strange shit going on around him. He was so removed now from his sanitized and sheltered life, and he was desperate to learn what was going on but had already been taught he wasn't allowed to ask. So he just kept his eyes wide, like he had to make sure he saw everything, just in case. It was a pathetic enough thought that Brock's irritation simmered a little. "You keep looking like that, people are gonna think I'm beating you," Brock muttered. The Soldier's brows drew together immediately, lips ready to form the question his brain was apparently struggling to come up with. Brock shook his head and cut him off. "Look, I'm not mad at you or anything. I just don't have all the answers you're looking for all the time, and you ask a _lot_ of god damn questions."

The Soldier pushed at the food with his fork. "You said I am permitted to have questions."

"Yeah, I know."

"Why would you offer that privilege if you don't have answers?"

"The hell kind of question is that? You think everyone who lets someone ask them questions should have all the possible answers?"

"You offered."

"I didn't offer _everything._ Just what I know."

The Soldier looked at his plate again. He pushed what was allegedly cheese around the plate. Then he looked slowly over his shoulder at the buffet. Brock realized he hadn't gone up there once. He almost told him he could if he wanted. But then the Soldier asked, "Is there pizza?"

Brock stared. "What?"

"The...buffet. Is there pizza?"

"It's Indian food."

"The Indian people don't eat pizza?"

"I mean...probably? I don't know, I never been to India." Not in a leisurely capacity, anyway. He cocked his head. "Why?"

"There was pizza. At the barracks. Motel." The Soldier scooped up some spinach. The second the taste hit his tongue, he cringed and let everything fall out of his mouth onto the plate with a wet _plop_ and Brock sighed.

"Don't do that. It's gross as hell."

"I don't like this food. Its taste is not good." He wore an expression of deep offense, like he'd just seen someone take a shit on a Bible or something.

It had Brock smirking as he said, "Okay, so spit it in the napkin." He took the object in question between his fingers and waved it. The Soldier followed with his eyes. "People don't want to see your food after it's been in your mouth, get it?"

The Soldier studied the stuff he spat out. Then his eyes shifted a little to the left where the rest of the untouched pile of spinach and lentils was. Finally he looked back up at Brock, brows drawn together with confusion, as per usual. "It is the same as it was when it went in."

"You're a real smart ass, you know that?" Brock muttered under his breath. He made a mental note not to get that food again. Apparently, history's greatest assassin didn't like spinach.

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://tchakaflocka.tumblr.com) friends!!


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